MOD PLOT ↠ ALL SOULS WHO TAKE UP THE SWORD

[faderifting]

WHO: Nearly everyone
WHAT: Retaking Val Chevin
WHEN: Late Firstfall into early/mid-Haring, 9:47
WHERE: Val Chevin, Orlais
NOTES: Generated injuries here! CWs for violence, slavery mentions. Use content warnings in your comment subject lines as needed.

THE BATTLE

The battle begins just after dawn, once the distraction at the harbor has drawn as much of the enemy force to that end of the city as possible. Bombardment (magical or otherwise) is fruitless while the elvhen shield artifact continues to magically reinforce the walls and gates, but a Riftwatch team is on its way and will soon have disabled it. In the meantime, while the enemy's attention is focused on the harbor the assault begins. The first waves of soldiers are sent up ladders to try to fight their way over. Some make it, and fight their way along the battlements to try to reach the gate below, in hopes of unbarring it from within even before the shield is broken. The attacking force very nearly manages a lightning-quick victory, numbers pouring over a section of the wall left unmanned by the harbor distraction. They might have managed it when, suddenly, a rush of magic descends down onto the walls, physically, enough to blow their hair back and everything, and a glowing dome spreads over the city—essentially an enormous magical barrier.

Those at the tops of ladders suddenly find their blows absorbed by the magic rather than landing on the overwhelmed guards along the wall, while the defenders' blades still pierce through from within. The tide quickly begins to turn in favor of the Tevinter defenders. Some of the attackers are caught already within the walls when the barrier drops, and without more following behind them are quickly outnumbered, either killed or forced to flee deeper into the city to try to avoid capture. There is traffic jam at the top of the wall as forward progress abruptly halts, and at least one ladder accidentally falls in the resulting confusion, taking a dozen or so attackers with it. Attacks from the walls above now rain down with impunity as the attackers attempt to force their way through the barrier, reasoning that all barriers break eventually and it's just a matter of applying enough force. For a short period that feels longer, the battle stagnates, all the damage being taken by the allied forces, the Tevinters on the wall able to regroup and reinforce their ranks.

It takes longer than anyone had planned but finally the Riftwatch team inside the city is successful and the barrier dome dissipates as abruptly as it had appeared. A cheer goes up, flagging morale restored, and the assault takes on renewed intensity. Without their magical protection the gate is no longer unbreachable. Rams are aimed at it and magical force as well, protected by archers and more mages, with assistance from some griffon riders above. The enemy throws down scalding stones, oil, even Antivan fire, but their force is stretched thinner and thinner, and more and more attackers make it over the walls to harry them back. Finally the gate splinters, and the armies of Orlais and the Divine stream into Val Chevin.

The Tevinter and Ander forces don't give in that easily. They make a stand in the central square of the city, fighting on the steps of the Chantry and the lip of the great fountain itself with its four leaping seahorses. They retreat through the streets, broken up into smaller groups, some barricading themselves inside a building, others seeking to hide in a home, more running, or looking for chokepoints they can defend, mages tearing stones out of walls to block pursuit. Some of the people of Val Chevin, sensing an end to the occupation at last, join the fight, driving soldiers out of their homes and shops with pitchforks and butcher's knives, raining trash and debris down on them from windows, calling out warnings and directions to friendly forces, offering water or aid where they can.

By mid-afternoon, it's over. Some of the occupying force have managed to flee into the countryside or into one of the few ships remaining intact in the harbor. Many more are dead. The remainder, perhaps as many as a thousand, are gradually cornered at various places around the city and give themselves up. Not all surrenders are honored--some, particularly Orlesians and locals caught up in the fighting, are eager to dispatch the enemy occupiers once and for all and unless someone intervenes may ignore the laying down of arms. Stragglers still attempting to hide or escape are rounded up throughout the day (some even later), tracked down by searchers or turned in by locals.

THE "SAFE AND SECURE" SHIP

Anchored at what is believed to be a safe distance just up the coast to the northeast of the city, Riftwatch's shipboard base of operations provides a landing and launch area for griffons, triage for wounded, and on large tables and boards a collection of detailed maps of the area and of the city and its various districts on which action is tracked as crystal reports come in. Some are assigned to shifts manning the crystals: taking in reports, asking questions, soliciting aid, sending griffon riders where they're most needed. Others analyze the information provided, plot it on the maps, or coordinate with allied movements. Supplies are doled out from the ship as well, from spare weapons and armor to food and water, grenades, lyrium potions, healing poultices. Though the breeze only intermittently carries the sounds of battle out here, the ship is still a buzz with activity throughout the day.

Disaster doesn't strike until the afternoon, when a group of Tevinters fleeing the city manage to commandeer one of the remaining mostly-intact ships and somehow make it out of the harbor despite not entirely knowing how to sail. They straggle out into the bay, catch the wrong current, and are suddenly on top of the Riftwatch ship. Though smaller and already beginning to sink, the Tevinter vessel manages to tangle itself with Riftwatch's anchor cable, and the couple of mages on board make a doomed attempt to trade up for the bigger, more seaworthy model. They fail, but not before managing to do some serious damage to Riftwatch's ship, sufficient to sink it as well.

A hasty evacuation follows by griffon and longboat. The ship sinks rapidly, leaving just barely enough time to get all the wounded ferried to shore and still come back for the healthy before they go down with the ship.

THE AFTERMATH

IMMEDIATE NEEDS

First things first: the wounded from the battle need to be attended to, including not only those from Riftwatch's ranks, but also members of the Orlesian military, local civilians, and Tevinter and Ander prisoners—though opinions vary about whether or not to provide them with any assistance. The Orlesian military has supplies and surgeons, and Riftwatch will be welcome to either seek care or help provide it in medical tents that are set up on the outskirts of the city even before the fighting has fully concluded. During this first evening, this area is not a peaceful place to be, filled with shouts and moans and blood-spattered people darting between emergencies. Even with Riftwatch's help (and magic), resources are stretched thin enough by severe injuries that those who look like they're going to survive without help might be turned away to deal with their pain and cosmetic concerns the old fashioned ways: finding elfroot sprouting up between the cobblestones to chew on, or gritting their teeth and getting over it.

Throughout the night, paranoia persists about the possibility that belated reinforcements—or, worse, a dragon—might arrive to prolong the battle. Soldiers keep watch along the walls and at some forward locations, and Riftwatch's griffon riders are sent to observe the portions of the occupying force that fled north and ensure there's nothing amiss. Nothing seems to be, but continuing to lightly harass the Tevinter and Ander forces to hurry them on their way and keep them from pausing to ransack anything won't hurt.

In the morning, back in Val Chevin, those who look strong and uninjured are enlisted to help with clearing debris from the places where the fighting was heavy and magical enough to collapse walls and roofs or topple statues, or else loading bodies onto carts bound for the pyres outside the city. By mid-morning plumes of smoke streak the sky. The bulk of the damage and death is concentrated on the docks, where the dreadnought crashed and where the initial smash-and-burn fighting took place. Meanwhile, throughout the harbor, griffons will prove useful in examining the water for concentrations of floating bodies—which need to be fished out to avoid a walking dead problem in the future—or debris that's potentially either useful or dangerous. Given what the dreadnought assault team reports, there's also a careful search for any red lyrium-infested sea creatures in the harbor, but while other pens like the one that contained the very large red lyrium octopus they encountered, all have been destroyed in the chaos and no other beasts are spotted.

TAKING STOCK

Over the course of the week, supplies arrive by land and by sea from across Orlais—some from the government, some from charitable patriots who put together donation drives as soon as they heard the news. About eighty percent are practical and useful: winter shoes and clothing, flour and preserves and other long-lasting foods, bolts of fabric, apothecary supplies, a few dairy animals and chickens. The usefulness of the rest varies, including a crate of used toys (labeled FOR THE SWEET PEASANT CHILDREN), an assortment of expensive hats that were in season last winter, and collections of plain masks and face paints in case Tevinter was cruelly forcing anyone to go barefaced. Riftwatch is given leave to distribute these to people as they find needs to meet.

The surviving Orlesian civilians who have been trapped in the occupied city for the last two and a half years haven't been as starved or brutalized as popular imagination may have assumed, but the experience has been plenty miserable. Outside of a few public executions, agitators and those who fomented rebellion against the occupiers have by and large disappeared more quietly. Due to its collective general experience with the Tevinter language and magic, Riftwatch is given the fairly depressing task of sorting through the cells and torture chambers in Val Chevin's central keep, where records and other evidence of executions remain. It's enough to determine who died and how. Some had quick deaths; others were tortured or used for blood magic rituals. A handful appear to have been removed from the city and sent north to be held in Tevinter instead. Relaying the specifics to family members will generally be the responsibility of Orlesian officials, but family members eager for information may corner Riftwatchers coming or going from the fortress to press them for details.

Over the next couple weeks Riftwatch is also called to assist with handling other remnants of the Tevinter occupation, such as translating documents, evaluating evidence of blood magic, and sorting through relics and enchanted objects accumulated by the Venatori. Among the things left behind is a trove of elven artifacts seemingly extracted from nearby temples. None are as powerful as the shield; most seem to be completely unmagical cultural relics.

Elsewhere, many locals were evicted from their homes to make room for Tevinter occupiers. While Orlesian officials sort through claims to those homes, including several contentious competing claims, Riftwatch is sent into them to sort through what the enemy left behind and make sure they're safe for their occupants to return to. In many they find the ashy remains of hastily burned private documents and a variety of fairly mundane magical objects: spoons that stir themselves, hats that are always cool on the inside, candles that light and extinguish in response to clapping.Each is the work of a bound spirit that can be released or destroyed—or left to continue its eternal work, if someone wants to pocket an object rather than restore it to its original inanimate state. Throughout the city, there may also be opportunities to reunite grateful civilians with appropriated belongings ranging from fine art to beloved old horses.

Orlesians aren't the only ones in the city in need of assistance. A small number of Tevinter slaves—exclusively those performing menial tasks, as far as anyone can tell—remain in the city now that their masters have been killed or captured. With the Orlesian populace and military inclined, on average, to consider them threats and collaborators, Riftwatch's intervention on their behalf is necessary. Interviewing them and checking their stories against witness accounts and Tevinter records, to ensure none of them are Venatori mages or gleeful torturers in disguise, will allow Riftwatch to vouch for them confidently. They may also be able to find sympathetic locals willing to shelter and hire those who would like to remain in the city, though there aren't that many who do want to stay.

Throughout their time in the city, Riftwatch representatives are asked to report what they find regarding the treatment of the locals and any practice of blood magic. While Orlesian officers ask for Riftwatch members to give this information to them directly, it's quickly clear that it's likely to influence Orlais' decisions about how to deal with the thousand-odd Tevinter prisoners. Individuals identified as responsible for atrocities are being tortured or executed, especially if they're unlikely to have or provide information, and there is nothing ensuring the entire group won't be ultimately executed after the dust settles. With that in mind, Riftwatch receives instructions from the Division Heads to instead bring the information to them so it can be compiled, double-checked, screened for any individuals Riftwatch may need to question themselves, and delivered with a diplomatic touch.

GOING HOME (OR NOT)

Approximately a week after the battle, as the majority of Riftwatch is preparing to leave, Empress Celene and members of her retinue arrive in Val Chevin. They're greeted by a restrained military parade and less restrained enthusiasm from the civilians, who will line the streets to catch a glimpse and celebrate the symbolic return of the city to full Orlesian control. Riftwatch's attendance is not mandatory. Most of the organization leaves that day to return to Kirkwall and their other work. However, a small number remain behind for a few more days, overseen by the heads of Diplomacy and Forces, to provide administrative support while the Ambassador and Commander liaise with the Empress' people about their plans for the Tevinter prisoners. As thanks, they might be invited to endure a few stifling fancy dinners.

Comments

TEAM DREADNOUGHT

[faderifting]

OOC | Details here; you can RP whichever part(s) interest you most.

jk.

[tender]

"There's nowhere else to go," Derrica is saying now, tone a little too strained to be persuasive. Surely they all see what she does: fire closing in around them, a sky empty of griffins, and the dark inviting stretch of ocean promising a way out.

In the roar of fire around them, punctuated by wood turning to ash and crumbling in on itself, it is difficult to tell whether or not their pursuers have caught up. There is so much wreckage, that it may well be slow-going for their foes. But they are in pursuit, that is a certainty. It is only a matter of time until they burst into sight. Derrica doesn't know what else they might do, but she knows they cannot wait here forever.

"You can swim, can't you?" is a more general question, just slightly begrudging. Despite the sweat beading along her hairline and slicking her palms, her grip on her stave is certain, one sure tap against the stone beneath their feet to refresh the barriers shimmering around their group.

Just in case.

TEAM SHIELD

[faderifting]

OOC | Details here; you can RP whichever part(s) interest you most.

[illithidnapped]

It goes more quickly when Astarion scouts ahead, their steady, silent progression through the fortress' central heart. A patient process by necessity alone: swift and silent, comfortable in slithering through even the most crowded stretches, he repeats the process of darting forward around corners and along half-lit corridors, seeking out unlocked doors, unguarded pathing— until at last he returns with a few raised fingertips pressed to his lips, their gloved span turned sideways in a gesture for careful silence.

He crouches low before speaking, turns his face towards the wall in a silent expectation for his partners to do the same. It reduces reverberation, muffles the spread of sound rather than letting it bounce along open walls or smooth, uncarpeted flooring.

“I’ve found our mark,” he whispers, flicking his stare back in the direction he’d approached from, the smell of mangled lilac clinging as he leans in. “The problem being there are two guards present, and I can only handle one on my own. Anything more than that, and they’ll no doubt make enough noise to alert the whole damn place.”

Either by shouting, screaming, or some other enchanted means, if this relic they’re chasing is as vital as Astarion imagines.

“In other words: straightforward murder won’t be an option. And poison will take far too long to attempt anything ranged, so before you ask— no. Can’t do it.”

derrica.

[tender]

[ a thread container. hit me up @ pogonophile with all your demands, or wildcard me. ]

holden ft. a special guest.

[tender]

Here is what James Holden might see, circling the battlefield:

A mishmash of soldiers and mages meeting in a muddle. The familiar glow of a barrier. A concussive boom of energy, scattering bodies in its wake. A second lashing burst of flame.

A figure, staggering upright and bringing down a leaping crack of lightening. One arm hangs useless at her side. She leans hard on her staff, using it to push off as she tries to clumsily extricate herself from the fray.

She has some success. But she is easy to pursue, without some kind of intervention.

ellie.

[tender]

flint.

[tender]

Richard had staved off the worst of the injury. It is not enough to eliminate the need for bandages, for her arm to be strapped securely down and a balm smeared carefully across her collarbone to dull the throb of pain. Richard had smoothed the break. Now the rest has to be done in increments.

She could do some of that herself now, but there are many others who need what she has left to give. Derrica is tired and the pain sparks up whenever she tries to wiggle the fingers of her left hand, but she doesn't lie down on her cot.

Her right hand is still sticky with ointment, the small clay jar held in her useless left hand, when she comes to a sudden stop. Recognition passes over her face, but she is still quiet for an uncertain moment before questioning, "Commander?"

It is him. But he might prefer she keep walking. (She will not, but he is allowed to make an attempt at persuading her.)

wysteria.

[tender]

"It needs to be reapplied, or else it might fester," Derrica is saying. Wysteria has been obliged to sit on a low stool to accommodate Derrica's sling, her orders to keep the movements of her left hand to a minimum.

Her fingers are very gentle where she dabs ointment along Wysteria's skin. This is not the worst injury Wysteria carried into the tent, Derrica knows, but it is the one Derrica choose to attend first.

The arrow left a neat scrape, furrowed along Wysteria's bicep. It could have been worse.

"But I think it will heal cleanly. No scar."

The truest reassurance Derrica has. She cannot say anything for the state of Wysteria, whether her dress can be repaired or the mud satisfyingly beaten from her boots. But she will have no scar from the arrow, that Derrica can promise.

john silver.

[hornswoggle]

[ a thread container. hit me up @ pogonophile with all your demands or wildcard me. ]

yseult.

[hornswoggle]

There is really no need for John on this battlefield. He is a member of Diplomacy. He is ostensibly an experienced sailor. He might have stayed behind.

And yet—

The battle had gone well, for a time. It is a sprawling affair, so much so that it is impossible to meet Flint in the midst of it. Nor does he come across many other familiar faces, though there are glimpses from time to time. Maybe the possibility of a potential ally is what distracts him, turning his attention for a split second, just long enough that he is caught off-guard when the beat of hooves on packed earth shifts from distant concern to more immediate problem.

The maul catches him across the chest, a dull thud of impact. The kick that comes after is insult to injury, but it destroys what's left of his balance.

He lands badly.

Almost instantly, even before the pain, John understands that this is an injury that requires fleeing the field. He has two good arms, yes. But if one is dedicated to the operations of his crutch, he is reliant on the other. And his right arm is lost to him, hanging dead at his side as pain explodes from his shoulder.

There's nothing to be done. The soldier can wheel around and make another pass. John begins the laborious process of levering himself upright, dragging himself up his crutch.

Time to go, as quickly as possible in his present condition.

silas.

[nonvenomous]

[ starters, hmu if you want something specific that OTAs below don't cover. ]

aftermath - healing/medical tent OTAs

[nonvenomous]

I. Afternoon:

As comforts go in the field of medical attempts fresh struck at the city’s outskirts, the best that can be said for Mister Dickerson is that he looks like he looks very assured in whatever it is he’s doing, jackson pollacked as he is in arterial spatter. He’s a lean man with a severe haircut and keen eyes, scarred across one cheek, a snip missing out of his ear. His sleeves are rolled crisp past his elbows in spite of the cold.

At times he’s twisting tourniquets tight or helping to pin thrashing survivors down while they’re stitched by defter hands. At others he’s doing the stitching.

The clawing and screaming doesn’t seem to reach him.


II. Smoke break:

Long after the sun has set, he can be found sitting at a campfire near enough the tents to hear the groans of the dying. He smokes as he scrubs blood from around his wrists with a wet cloth, an empty bowl of stew and a pot of filmy water on a flat stone near the fire.

Though he’s hardly the only one smoking, the drift of burning elfroot on the wind makes him easier to find.

So too does the splinter of Fade green glowing in his palm.


III. Graveyard shift:

Later still, he passes between rows of makeshift sick beds like a shade while other healers work on into the night. Tapped, too tired to sleep, he’s buckled up in his armor and the mangy bristle of his cloak to search for familiar (or suspicious) faces among the resting injured. Here and there is someone lying awake in pain or terror, and he’ll pause to share his joint or a sip of whiskey while he assesses their condition if they’re pitiful enough.

His step is near silent in spite of the armor, the tug of a limp at one heel. Glimmers of candlelight show how closely his face is drawn against the bone by exhaustion.

Even once he’s out of weed and drink and standing dim outside the tent to squint at the temptation of a nearby campfire, he’s coppery sharp and smoky with the stench of his evening so far, booze warm on his breath and watery in his eyes.

james holden.

[acreage]

[ thread catch-all. feel free to hmu for plotting or leave me wildcards. ]

open.

[acreage]

BATTLE/IMMEDIATE AFTERMATH

It isn't so long ago that he was here on griffonback, monitoring the harbor for evidence of explosives in the water. They'd come back one less then, and he intends to do his damndest to avoid a repeat. A tall order for a battle like this one but —

tilting at windmills. If he knew how to stop, he would've a long time ago.

He's armed with his sword and new throwing axe at his belt; he's still working on the skill of using the latter, doesn't intend to use it unless he needs to, and at close quarters. But he'd figured two sharp weapons for better than one, in a situation like this.

He can be found anywhere griffon riders are deployed: perhaps swooping out of the air to help fend off an enemy where someone is about to be overwhelmed or snuck up on; or maybe you're aboard the supposedly safe ship, now sinking, and he's ushering you let him take you to shore.

In the immediate aftermath, he's finding the wounded: be they locals, Riftwatch, allied or enemy forces.

"Come on," he's saying, gently taking someone injured by the elbow, "you're going to be okay."

He glances towards the nearest familiar face for to get the wounded onto his griffon, head canted in silent question.

Or maybe it's late, the night lit only by the moons overhead and the fleeing army beneath. Over the beat of griffons' wings: "Anything look suspicious to you?"

AFTER-AFTERMATH

There's so much that needs doing, after.

He spends time with the supplies, doing the work of sorting through crates and putting things together by type, by necessity. Sometimes it's handing off items saying something like, "Here's more food," and sometimes it's a squawking chicken in his hands and "Did we have a place for live animals?" Or a handful of face paints and unadorned masks, and him saying wryly,

"At least they cared enough to send something."

Or he's looking through a recently vacated home with a fellow member of Riftwatch, frowning bemusedly at a bowl with strange markings painted on the side. It's possible that the original homeowner, not the Tevinter, had it made, but...

"I'm not sure," he admits, "how to tell if it's been enchanted or not."

He's going to feel incredibly stupid if he tries, like, clapping or whistling to activate a non-magical bowl.

Ellie

[notathreat]

[Catch-all! Wildcards welcome.]

OTA: cw violence, death

[notathreat]

I. No Surrender

The streets of Val Chevin are red with blood in some places, and though Ellie's never properly seen war, she's no stranger to the horrific violence. Sometimes, she thinks it's something that comes back, settling over her shoulders like a well-worn coat, but other times she knows it's in her skin. In her blood. It's something that'll never leave.

The enemy soldiers are starting to break and fall back. Some are cornered, wounded, flagging, and others are fighting to the death.

Ellie's dropped in from above to force a small group of them back, and four of them have temporarily separated her from her griffon, driven her down an alleyway to block her in. It's close quarters, too close to use her bow, too close to blink out of sight and slip away, and they're coming in fast.

She pulls a knife, and her eyes burn gold.

"A mage!" one of the soldiers screams, and rushes her. She lunges, predator fast, and blood paints the wall of the alleyway in a curving splatter.

No human should be able to pull that off. But magic or no magic, she's cornered.


II. A Sinking Ship

Piracy's clearly not all it's cracked up to be. Ellie's safely in the air when she catches wind of the bullshit going down on the coast, and while she's a touch worse for wear, she's still very much in this fight.

The ships are floundering, the anchor lines pulled tight, and the crack of the hull sounds very much like a thunderclap, slicing through the air around her and Artichoke. He gives a piercing shriek, and Ellie as gasp as the vessel starts listing to one side. Even if she's not very well-versed in how ships work, it's pretty fucking obvious this one is sinking.

Gritting her teeth, Ellie grips with her knees, sitting up in the saddle, and pulls an arrow out of her quiver as they go into a dive. She pulls back, and as they hit the mark, she lets the arrow loose. It slams through the throat of one of the assailants, which had been aiming for one of the escaping longboats.

A second later, she spots someone who is definitely not one of Corypheus' soldiers, still trapped on the deck of the sinking ship.

"Got you!" she yells, and turns Artichoke. They don't have enough level space to land, so they'll have to time this right.

She outstretches her good hand as they come in hot, ready to snatch them up from the sinking ship.


III. The Price of War

The aftermath is always the worst. The dead haven't been dead long, but if they wait much longer the rot will set in. Ellie is one of the few loading up the carts, fishing through pockets to see what personal effects can be returned to families. Citizens, enemy soldiers, and their Riftwatch's own, they're all so similar now.

Ellie's doing steady work, but she pauses over one of the bodies; an enemy soldier curled up on his side, around what looks like a broken-off spear shoved into his side. As Ellie goes to move him he groans softly, reaching out a blood-streaked hand for hers.

He begs, softly. Far gone. Ellie kneels down next to him, draws her knife, and without any bit of hesitation, pulls it across the skin of his throat.

Blood soaks the stone around her knees, and Ellie stays there a moment, looking at his face, before she reaches out to thumb his eyes closed.

"Help me lift this one, would you?" she asks, her voice level.

Loki

[icasm]

[ A catch-all thread container. Please hit me up on spacewitchery if you want something specific. Wildcards welcome! ]

during the fight; open to all

[icasm]

For everything going on in his personal life— namely Sylvie's arrival from a different point in time than the last thing he remembers with her —a fight at the front feels like just what he needs to get his head back on straight again.

There's something very calming about the simplicity in the act of defending oneself on the battlefield. It's almost like a dance; Loki knows the steps well by this point in his life and enjoys seeing the look of surprise as he blasts a combatant in the chest with green and gold light, causing them to stagger backward before they end up with one of his daggers at their throat.

Much of his fighting is like this: a flash of magic and then the reality of tempered steel. He has on his Asgardian leathers for this battle, no horns, hair constantly getting in his face but he loves it.

There's nothing simpler and more finite than causing death to one's enemies.

Adrasteia

[kantikoy]

[ A catch-all thread container. Please hit me up on spacewitchery if you want something specific. Wildcards welcome! ]

the battle, in flight; open to griffon riders & people in need of a rescue

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia is, at this point, quite the griffon rider. She's gotten good at swooping in and dropping Antivan fire on the heads of those who have surrounded fighters on the correct side of battle, while attempting to stay far enough away from anyone that might be a blood mage and turn her mind against her.

She curses in Orlesian (because Orlesian is the best language to curse in, and it marks her as different from the Ander and Tevene forces) as she descents quickly and casts barrier on aligned forces who are fighting for their lives.

The Grey Warden is wearing her Riftwatch uniform and also picks up a few stragglers here and there, gently depositing them in the triage area if they need more healing than she can provide, all things considered.

[sagaciouselle]

[ A catch-all thread container. Please hit me up on spacewitchery if you want something specific. Wildcards welcome! ]

as the bubble goes up; the battle, ota

[sagaciouselle]

Prudence makes her way into the city from the outer walls in the time between the battle beginning and the barrier coming crashing down. She uses her pair of swords to cut through people to come at her, until there's a mage down a narrow street who tries to electrocute her; suddenly the entire group of people between her and the mage are screaming in fear, some entirely frozen by the force of the spell (horror, if you were wondering) that she's cast at them.

She cuts them down without hesitation.

When the barrier goes up she pauses, head tilted to the sky.

"Shit."

This is not going to end well.

Abby A.

[armd]

(catch-all, wildcards welcome!)

open

[armd]

𝟏) 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠

The battle is dealt with in waves. Abby doesn't much mind so long as there's time to catch her breath in-between stops and starts. Out in a fight she's loud, and she draws attention. She snarls, and spits, and curses at bodies that fall beneath the wet thunk of her spiked mace, and the people on Riftwatch's side quickly learn to use her as a shield, that they can hide behind her bulk and let her carve pathways through. She's good like that: a furious battering ram.

The dispelling of the shield makes their formation messy though, and it's not long before she accidentally finds herself turned around and half-blinded by sweat in her eyes.

The end of the mace pulls up sharply before it can hit anybody on her own side, careening hard into the earth. A close thing, too close for comfort. Abby winces in apology, and wipes her face, and yanks her weapon back up into both hands all in the same breath.

"Shit," she pants, sheepish, "Sorry about that."

𝟐) 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟

And later–

When most of the fighting has died out, and they're all reeling in their blood-stained silence, Abby is helping somebody through the mess toward the tents. She'd already been on her way there herself, had come across somebody limp and staggering, and stopped to loop her good arm around their waist.

Her other is dangling very painfully at her side, obviously fucked. There's an egg-sized lump welling up on the reverse side of her elbow that she can't see, but for now it could be sprained, could be badly bruised... Let her believe, okay. She's sweating, very uncomfortable and struggling to keep her fellow fighter upright.

Could use another limb, if you've got one going.

𝟑) 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞

Well, not that long, but the triumphant return is set to be extremely undignified when you're not allowed on a horse without supervision. Abby's been instructed to partner up with somebody. Her arm has been set and splinted reassuringly, the worst of the pain kept at bay by healers, but she can't use it at all. And she isn't really allowed to use the working one either, much to her dismay.

"Fucksake," she mutters, angry, embarrassed to be in this situation- she's essentially waiting around to be picked up.

Byerly

[bouchonne]

[ Catch-all, with prompts to be added as they occur to me! ]

Ship, during the attack

[bouchonne]

As a rule, Byerly avoids fighting. As a less-strict rule, he avoids training, and when he trains, it's late at night or early in the evening. So one could be forgiven for assuming that By doesn't know how to fight at all, that he's as soft and helpless as he generally tries to lead people into thinking he is.

He's not. Moments after it becomes clear that this battle is real, that they're truly going to be boarded, he has a crossbow in hand. He lines it up, sights it, and pulls the trigger; the bolt thunks into the shoulder of one of the first men up over the side, throwing him off-balance, causing him to slip and fall heavily onto one of his comrades, taking them both down into the water. (A lucky shot - By'd been aiming for his neck, but this is even better.)

There's a calm to him in this fight, a cool-blooded focus that is at odds with his usual dissolute manner. He speaks evenly to the person beside him, asking, "Are you able to fight?"

Sylvie Laufeydottir.

[apocalypsegrown]

[ Container for toplevels, you can reach me on discord at aviculae#4520 or Uccellino at plurk to plot if you'd like! ]

↪ The Battle

[apocalypsegrown]

Sylvie almost didn't go.

She's got really no dog in this fight, especially having just barely cleared her quarantine period. This world was complicated and intense and full of war and arguments and land under question of ownership; death and genocide and all the things you expect from any planet populated by mostly humanoid creatures who were under the ebb and flow effect of the things that were often called a soul. A million worlds and in the end? They're all the same really. There would have been plenty of reason to insist on staying back, guard the gallows, keep safe. But Loki is here; and this is now her home for the time being- and the idea of letting out some rage in battle seemed like a good idea until she finds herself now amongst the ranks.

In many ways she finds Loki a mirror of her, rather than simply a variant. How often had he found himself on the battlefield, Thor and the well trained soldiers of Asgard at his side? Celebrating victory and advancing, and all the tactics that were required of long form battle. Sylvie's never fought that way. Her fights were all survival, necessary shedding of blood; and then the quick and bloody guerilla attacks on the TVA, always well planned and with escape routes. Not to mention an effective and precise use of enchantment to increase her numbers. Here she has neither to fall back on.

Here, with the wind whipping flags and stirring dust amongst a wall of soldiers, a city guarded ahead of them, she feels more than a little out of her depth.

↪ For Loki;

It's strange to have him at her hip again, even more so in this environment. It's the first time she's seen him in his Asgardian leathers, and standing like this they match more than she'd like to admit. The penchant for green, golds, and blacks. She's not been as off standard as she thought apparently. Beyond her hair she should have gone for red and silver apparently.

"I have something for you." She says finally, a little hesitant to break the quiet before battle, and glances up sideways at him. "You won't recognize it but it's yours."

↪ Open;

She's really not sure what she had been worried about. Battles and wars and sieges may not be her normal repertoire but Sylvie is well over 1200 years old, and 1200 years of fighting for one's life seems more than enough to prepare one for the horrors of warfare against soldiers who's lifespans alone barely could contain a tenth of her experience.

In short despite the failings of her new body and lack of any substantial magic, and long since separated from Loki, her black and green armor was well splattered with blood that is not hers. The blue of her sword sword is nearly purple and dripping as she turns and surveys the expanded battlefield now that the shield has dropped, her hair tangled and sticking to the sweat on her face and neck. What next?

[ ooc: Please feel free to catch her at any point of the battle! ]

Astarion | OTA (cw for violence, slavery)

[illithidnapped]

I: YOUR HERO HAS ARRIVED

Like any sensible rogue snaking their way along an enemy’s entrenched flank, Astarion keeps to the rooftops as much as possible after that initial shielding bursts, watching for stragglers to pounce on, allies in need.

It’s the latter he eventually finds, whatever the situation might be: leaping from the second story window of a faded plaster building to slam his heels against the back of an advancing, fiercely-determined Tevinter soldier, thick armor buckling with a sickening sort of crunch in the split-second before Astarion’s dagger plunges deep into a gap between metal plating.

Astarion rises. The soldier doesn’t.

He looks pale. Well— no, actually, that’s what he always looks like, come to think of it, but there’s exhaustion slung dark beneath his hollow eyes, sweat beaded light across his brow. A certain breathy quality to his words that isn’t anything but barely present. Probably the same sort of battlefield tiredness everyone’s presently sweating out.

“What ever would you do without me, I wonder.” Proud and preening, red eyes narrowed under the weight of a decidedly lopsided grin, wiping the edge of his blade against the loose fabric of his shirt— crimson disappearing into black.

II: ALMS FOR THE NEEDY (-NOT- THOSE IN NEED)

Aside from the poison, his injury hadn’t really been dire enough to waste supplies on. Thus in the aftermath of the battle, he picks where he intends to be: loitering around the Orlesian donations, plucking through the more useless flotsam with one shoulder tightly wrapped in torn, thoroughly tattered cloth— or, perhaps more likely, snooping around the collection of useless magical items and yet-to-be-verified elven artifacts, making research all the more difficult for anyone attempting productivity.

“All I’m saying is,” he starts (as he so often starts now that the battle’s done), “if this isn’t vital, what’s the harm if it goes missing?”

Or...say....into someone’s pocket.

III: UNSPOKEN BOND

It’s day in, day out, the residual work they’ve been left with, particularly when it comes to vetting what remains of Tevinter's abandoned slaves— a task Astarion seems to openly dislike, yet refuses if pressed to relinquish it to someone else, snapping his teeth each and every time. And done for the evening (notes and papers seen to, confirmations filed away), Astarion leaves as quickly as always when it comes to official work of any sort: immediately, not so much as a second spared in departure through the back doors of whatever conscripted buildings they'd been granted for the majority of their efforts.

Yet as the sky turns a deeper shade of violet preceding nightfall, there’s a softer echo of hushed voices in one of the nearby alleyways, where a smaller group of freed slaves— differing in appearance and prior origin, all formerly snared and now directionless— stand huddled in the darker shadow of damaged architecture.

Astarion, all pale contours and dark clothes, recognizably distinct at their side.

“Don’t go with us is all I'm saying. I doubt anyone will leap to offer it, but I also doubt it won’t happen, either.” Bleeding hearts are always full of good intentions and terrible ideas. Rifters more than most, particularly at times like this. “Kirkwall is dangerous. And I know, easier to take the outstretched hand, but given the way Corypheus has his eye on us— the attack we’ve only just unraveled— the refugees fleeing the loss of Tantervale already there in droves...you’ll become competition at best, and easy prey at worst.”

And that sort of scenario rarely ends well.

“I’ll talk to a few of my own contacts once you’re cleared— which you will be, obviously, that I can see to myself— but—”

He turns, sharp ears attuned, attention twisting as he reaches for the dagger at his belt, eyes gone utterly reflective in the dark.

“Who’s there.”

IV: WILDCARD

[ooc: you know the drill! Mix and match prompts, make up your own, tweak anything here however you like to suit your needs, I'm down for all of it.

As a note: Astarion's getting poisoned while doing Team Shield's mission, so for the first prompt until the fight ends, he'll be dealing with slow acting poison starting to hinder his efforts, but otherwise he's A-OK.]

Prudence;

[illithidnapped]

The noise he makes is narrow. Frustrated. Tongue scraped against the back of his teeth, one gloved hand to his brow, slumped over a desk piled half-high with records. Some of them in Trade, more in Tevene (and a sparing few in Ander, which Astarion will have to cross check later). At his side is a heavy stack of his own notes: lists of individual names or— in some miserable cases— simply titles, each with a mess of memos, facts, numbers and annotations listed beside them.

Beneath that, is a half-unscrambled mess of translations. And the word kaffas, underscored twice.

One of the few Tevene words Astarion's long been acquainted with, and not one that's proving useful aside from venting alone.

Under his breath, he's cursing. At length.

jone | ota.

[poleaxed]

(a.) The last time Jone was in a proper battlefield, the city she defended was under siege. How fucking brilliant, to break a siege herself. After months of tactics she has only theoretical familiarity with, siege-breaking is a welcome reprise to her skill.

The scar on her face is an angry red line from nostril to lip, taking its sweet time healing. She doesn't grin in the face of a fight, doesn't hoot or howl like she prefers. When you sack a city-- even to save it-- you ought to be a terror about it. But she minds her fucking face for once in her life, and fights silent.

She makes it over the wall with little effort-- she's too old to be shock troops, and by then the people kicking down ladders are either dead or quit to other rafters. Of course, mages always know their use. The one on the wall before her wields fire like two lanterns from each palm, the light scorching whatever it touches. Jone has stolen one of the large, heavy metal shields common to Tevene heavy troops and is using it to slowly advance upon the mage. The shield grows hotter and hotter, and the scent of burning flesh can be detected.

"Fuck," she says, hissing.

(b.) When the battle is finished, pours her energy into the clean up effort. She prefers her mind busy, in moments like this, and that means work. Jone puts her time into every empty-headed task she can find, from carrying supplies to lifting lumber. She's strong, and weathers the strain.

It's not like she'll be useful at the medical tent.

But tents are needed. She's found most often helping more to be raised, banging metal into the ground or digging a hole for posts. The labor goes slowly, but that's fine.

Inevitably, she gets in the way of others. Holding up a beam, she becomes for a short time one of the pillars that holds up the tent itself. "G'wan," she murmurs, mush-mouthed with effort, "outta the way, now."

(c.) [feel free to wildcard, i'm up for anything.]

wildcard after the faito;

[archademode]

He has done his part. The battle finished, the knotted array of remaining tasks nothing he in his present state can assist in sorting. When he finds her in the midst of rigging up a fresh cluster of medical tents, he lacks his armor (or his helm, for that matter), dark underlayers betraying nothing of his state.

One hand, however, pressed fierce against his abdomen (fitted beneath with gauze gone a deep, blooming crimson) might well shriek of it where the rest of him does not: expression level, fitted with the same measure of unflinching tension Noah wears in perpetuity. Even his voice remains unaffected when he calls to her, quietly.

"I return to Kirkwall forthwith."

There is more to be said, but it remains clear enough he's waiting for her focus amidst bustling crowds. The scent of cloying smoke.

yseult | ota

[hassaran]

I. IMMEDIATE AFTERMATH -- MEDICAL TENTS

A battle doesn't just end all at once. Even once the bulk of the occupying force has been cornered at the half-burnt harbor and surrendered, there are knots of stragglers throughout the city to be tracked and trapped, wounded to be transported, meetings with fellow Division Heads and Inquisition officials or Orlesian leaders to coordinate plans for the most immediate stages of what comes next. So it's some time before Yseult is able to make it to the medical tents to do more than drop off a passenger.

She is lightly soot-streaked and blood-splattered, her left arm held close in a makeshift sling, but it's obvious that she's not here for herself. She ignores the healers themselves and instead moves briskly through the tents and the rows of pallets and cots laid inside, scanning forms and faces as she goes, moving past those in uniform and only occasionally pausing beside a wounded man to get a better look before moving on. Once, she crouches beside a man, his face covered in bandages, and carefully rolls up his shirt sleeve before rising and continuing her search.

II. IMMEDIATE AFTERMATH -- GRIFFONKEEPING

The griffons have had too long a day to fly immediately back to the eyrie at Kirkwall, and may be needed still to track the flight of those enemy soldiers that made it out of Val Chevin, or who knows what else. For now, they've earned dinner and rest in the large, empty stable Riftwatch has commandeered for the purpose. Yseult sits on a three-legged stool beside one griffon, one arm still in a sling, gently scrubbing out blood and grime from fur. The griffon, white with dun markings around her beak, seems to be ignoring the bucket of rabbit in front of her to grumble up at the ceiling. Whenever anyone walks by, her attention can be seen to wander, head smoothly ducking to peer after them like a thief casing a potential mark. And if anything happens to be sticking out of a pocket, bag, sack,or equivalent, she might just try to nick it.

III. TAKING STOCK — DUNGEONS

The cells in the central keep are much like those anywhere: dark, a little musty, occasionally filled with the gruesomely obvious evidence of torture or, worse, a collection of mundane objects—furniture, tools, medical supplies—made sinister by their incongruity. Yseult is here to go through the records, and for several days she can be found in what was the chief interrogator's office, paging through what is left of the Venatori files in search of anything immediately actionable.

She can also, once or twice, be found lingering inside the open doorway of a dim cell or chamber. Perhaps she is running a finger over graffiti scratched into the cell wall, or examining scratches around the inside of a lock, kicking a toe testingly at where magic has affixed a chair to the floor, or leaning over to look at a collection of blacksmithing tools lying tangled in a tub in the corner. Even more rarely she might be encountered outside, seemingly half-hiding behind a column out of the way of the main paths, smoking a cigarette with eyes closed and her face turned up to the sun.

IV. TAKING STOCK — INTERROGATIONS

Riftwatch's prisoner interrogations are held in a lightly-singed inn near the harbor that may in fact have been less of an inn and more of a brothel. In any event it has a dozen or so rooms just large enough, with a bit of rearranging, for prisoner, a guard or two, and questioner. And occasionally for Yseult, who listens in on more than she personally conducts, often perched on the edge of a bed or dressing table or leaned against a wall, occasionally making notes with a stub of pencil in a small book. Sometimes she hears enough early on and slips back out, very rarely she will interject a question or clarification of her own at some point in proceedings. Most often she listens, silent, until the prisoner is removed once again from the room and then ask: "What do you think?"

V. WILDCARD

[ Surprise me! Battle stuff is also all fair game despite this post being all aftermath prompts. She was on a griffon during the battle so available for aerial rescues/transport. Or hit me on plurk if you want to discuss first. ]

I;

[illithidnapped]

Astarion hasn't quite returned to all his usual ardor just yet, given the potency of that poison left unnoticed in the midst of a battle too demanding to quit— but with his shoulder tightly wound in thicker silk (the unfortunate necessity of lacking supplies and one less-than-lethal injury already magically seen to), it certainly doesn't stop him from rising to his feet from across the tent as she drifts past, wholly focused.

His approach is utterly silent, footsteps light as air and balanced just across the balls of his feet.

She, clever as always, might sense it regardless.

"Looking for someone?"

Benedict

[altusimperius]

[for standalones blah blah]

for Cassius

[altusimperius]

A fairly uneventful day it's been on the Safe & Secure Ship, all things considered. Relegated to lower-level tasks like running notes and pinning maps, Benedict has been busy, but not in any way nearly so stressful or traumatic as what their forces on land are enduring: it's a thought that is on the forefront of his mind as he stops for the umpteenth time to stare in the direction of the rising smoke and the distant shouting.

Those are his people, out there. Killing, and being killed by, also his people. It's enough to make one's guts twist in a knot.

Edgard

[muckspout]

[wildcards always welcome, also feel free to hit me up for anything else whenever you like, I am friendly, I swear.]

OTA

[muckspout]

1. After the battle

A crowd of locals is gathered around a very young Tevinter soldier and Edgard is speaking rapid Orlesian to the group. Edgard runs a distressed hand through his hair.

“He’s surrendered.” He gestures to the soldier. “They don’t care. They want to kill him.”

He shakes his head, breathing shakily.

“Don’t know what to do.”



2. Boo-Boo


Edgard is covered in bandages and lying on a bed in a medical tent. His limbs sprawl off the bed, but no one seems to notice or care, least of all Edgard. When he speaks, it is a quiet whisper, probably the quietest Edgard has ever been.

“you’re saying what got me was a horse?”

marcus rowntree.

[luaithre]

closed to julius.

[luaithre]

It's late at night when Marcus finally lands. The battle has been over for hours, but the immediate task of monitoring enemy forces, of staring at the sky in anticipation of something large and winged, had gone on for just as long. To less dramatic effect, but all the same.

There's a brief detour, a march through the medical tents and some snippy exchanges, and then back towards Riftwatch's encampment, and in the direction he knew Julius to be when they parted ways that morning. On his end of things, Marcus is mostly just a scruffier, more windswept version of himself since that time, his armor and furs and cloak buckled into place, but paler, wearier, hair from its usual tie and streaked in snowmelt and sweat.

His arrival is abrupt, pushing into view, tracking mud, the usual faint scent of smoke, worry cleaved firm into his expression.